This sent a cheery applause through the room. There was a pause, and everyone was looking at me. That’s when I realized I was supposed to speak. And say what?
“Hi. Thank you. I’m still … well, I have a lot of questions. And I’m not completely … It’s just all so … new.”
Despite my inarticulate introduction, the women all seemed reassuring, kind, and I began to relax into my chair. Cassie pointed and named each member of the Committee: Bernice, Kit, Michelle, Brenda, Angela, Pauline, Maria, Marta, Amani and Matilda.
“Don’t worry, the only name you really have to remember is mine,” Cassie said. “I, of course, will be your Guide, while they, the Committee”—she indicated the whole room—“will guide
“You’ll both need the help,” Angela said, winking at me. She was also ribbing Cassie.
Maybe because some of their faces were vaguely familiar—they ate, worked and shopped on Magazine Street, after all. Maybe because I recognized the painting of Carolina Mendoza on the far wall and decided to make her my private guardian angel. Or maybe because I knew they were women who, like me, had lost some of their confidence and were helping each other get it back. Regardless of why, it suddenly seemed normal to sign up for what they were offering: a sexual rebirth.
Danica placed a folder in front of me. It was burgundy, soft to the touch, embossed with the words
“This is your fantasy folder. There is one page per fantasy. You can fill this out at home,” Cassie said. “When you’re done, Danica will courier it back to us.”
On the right side were several sheets of cream-colored parchment. On the left, S.E.C.R.E.T.’s mandate was spelled out.
“Each fantasy must be:
Safe, in that the participant feels no danger.
Erotic, in that the fantasy is sexual in nature, not just imaginary.
Compelling, in that the participant truly wants to complete the fantasy.
Romantic, in that the participant feels wanted and desired.
Ecstatic, in that the participant experiences joy in the act.
Transformative, in that something in the participant changes in a fundamental way.”
Inside the folder, in each flap, was a fantasy list. I scanned it, my face heating up:
It was enthralling, thrilling and terrifying in equal measure.
“Remember,” Matilda said, “you choose your fantasies, set the limits and maintain total control. Anytime you want to, you can stop.”
I looked around the room at the Committee. This time my eyes paused for a moment at each warm, expectant face. All these women made me feel like the biggest adventure of my life was about to begin. And yet, I saw myself fussing and worrying over every single scenario, slowly neutering my adventures, whittling them down to carefully choreographed interludes. I’d do this but not that. Or I’d be willing to try this but only if that were in place. I saw myself double- and triple-guessing myself over each decision. Then I remembered something my dad said, the day he finally pried me off the side of our backyard pool. Since I was a toddler, I’d been content enough to clutch the walls, to let my legs barely kick at the water. But he said:
So I had no choice but to do what I did next.
I tossed the fantasy folder to the middle of the table.
“Thank you all. But I’m not going to fill out this fantasy list. Not because I don’t want to do this. Quite the opposite. I not only want to do this, I
I had the attention of the whole table. Mouths were agape. Cassie was covering hers with a hand, her lovely bracelet dangling from her wrist, one I’d soon be wearing.
”So you accept?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, feeling defiant, triumphant. “I accept.”
7
CASSIE
AS MUCH AS I was thrilled by Dauphine’s bravery and excited to guide her, I was also admittedly a little jealous. After all, I had caught a glimpse of her fantasy board, and some of the marvelous men she was about to experience. That’s why I whipped out my phone right then and there on Third Street, before reaching Magazine. Enough of this silly reticence, these dumb fears. Dauphine had said, “Surprise me,” in response to the Committee asking her what kind of sexual fantasies she hoped to enjoy. If I was going to be someone’s Guide, I had better start getting brave myself.
I punched in Mark Drury’s number with a new vigor.
“Hello?” he said in a voice that sounded like it had been stored in an oak barrel in a damp basement.
“I woke you up, didn’t I.”
“Yes, you did.”
“But it’s four in the afternoon.”
“Is that
“No, it’s not your—It’s the girl you met on the patio a few days ago. Cassie. Though, I am sorry about your mother.”
“I’m just messing with you. I know who you are, and for the record, my mother’s alive.”
“Wait till I tell her what you did.”
“That’s very presumptuous, assuming you’ll meet my mom before you’ve even gone out on one date with me. Where are you?”
“In the Garden District, leaving … a friend’s house,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at the Mansion, now in the distance.
“So?” I said.
“So what?”
“So … wanna hook up?”
“Right now?” he asked, choking a little on his words. “Yeah. Right now.”
“Yeah!” he said, fully awake now.
He suggested Schiro’s in a half hour. That meant no time to change, I thought, looking down at my T-shirt and jeans. And no time to change my mind. I was going to “hook up” with a guy I had just met.
A wave of nausea overcame me. Could I do this? That was what my year of S.E.C.R.E.T. was for, wasn’t it? To act as a set of sexual training wheels? It was high time they came off. I knew what my needs were. Time to get them met.
Of course Mark Drury was late. Of course he knew the cute waitress, the hot girl eating alone, the androgynous sous chef who he stopped to high-five, and the curvy bartender from whom he ordered a pitcher of
